All Too Well
by Rmorris27
Summary: Inspired by "All Too Well"- Taylor Swift. Johnlock feels galore.


I listened to "All Too Well"- Taylor Swift and got so many feels I drowned, both real life and Johnlock.

I decided to write it out. All angst-y and slightly fluffy.

* * *

**_"I walked through the door with you, the air was cold, but something about it felt like home somehow"_**

I think I've replayed that memory a thousand times. That first day outside 221B when he climbed from a taxi and shown me in. The flat was freezing cold but it felt warm at the same time. For London, the flat was brilliant, and the rent was too good to be real. I remember saying that the place was a mess before realising that it was all his crap which he offered to "straighten up a bit". He never did, I'm still sitting in the same chair surrounded by the same dusty old books and that bloody harpoon that's leaning in the corner beside the giant smiley face and the bullet holes in the wall. I laugh at it usually, not a proper laugh, just a quick chuckle now and then because it was just so stupid. His ability to justify everything like that as a product of boredom was a talent because every time he shot the wall, or burnt one of my jumpers or threw a knife at the cluedo board he got away with it just because we all knew that was how he was.

He was Sherlock Holmes and he did as he bloody well pleased. But something that day made me feel like I was home. As soon as I limped up those stairs I felt something, and then when I ran back in after getting my cane from Angelo I was sure that I wouldn't be leaving 221B anytime soon. I didn't ever intend to live here alone though.

**_"And I can picture it after all these days"_**

It's been two years. Two years since he fell from the top of that building. Since he marked me as the last person he would ever talk to. I remember on the first case we did together he was trying to figure out why the woman had written "rache" on the floor and he asked "If you were about to be killed what would you say?" and I'd told him what I had actually said when I'd been shot. His last words, the thing that he said just before he was killed was "goodbye John".

I hear those words all the time. I hear how his usually steady voice broke and how I could hear that he was crying as he said those words. I don't know what those tears meant. I'd like to think that they meant that he would miss me and that he was sorry but he was Sherlock Holmes so who knows.

I can still see him fall too. I see him throw the phone away and turn to look at the ground. He opened his arms out and just leaned forward. I don't remember much after that. I remember dropping my phone and running towards him to see him and save him, but then I was on the ground for a minute and then I saw him. All pale skin and silver eyes that made the blood look that much brighter. That was the last time I ever saw him. The funeral was closed casket and Molly didn't let me near the morgue. That's the last image I have of him and I can see it just as clearly as I would if I was holding a picture in my hands.

**_"And I know it's long gone and that magic's not here no more"_**

221B isn't the same without him. It's missing the crazy underfed git that he was. It just looks a mess rather than a Sherlock-mess of test tubes and fizzing acid and heads in the fridge. He told me on the roof that day that what he did was just a trick. I don't believe that. I tried to for a while but I saw him do it too often to doubt it. He was real, so was Moriarty.

As for Sherlock doing tricks, I believe that he did that too. He cured my limp within a day, my nightmares within a month and just gave me my life back in a way that I never could have alone. He was Sherlock Holmes and he emitted some kind of magic into the air around him. Now that he was gone, so was the magic. My limp was back, my nightmares more frequent and my life was... Well it wasn't much of a life.

He could do the impossible and thats why I always ask for one more miracle from him. If anyone could come back it would be him. The mad git is clever enough to cheat death.

He had to be.

**_"I might be okay but I'm not fine at all"_**

Mrs. Hudson still comes up. She worries like a mother hen about me. I think she thought of us as her children in a way, I'd heard her call us "her boys" to friends and I suppose that we were. She's just asked me for the seventh time today if I'm okay, I told her I was. I am okay. I'm as okay as I can be but I'm not fine. I'm a mess. The therapist is doing bugger all as per, Harry tried to help by coming and staying for a while but she just ended up drinking all of Sherlock's wine and wearing his blue dressing gown. She was thrown out rather quickly after that and told not to come back.

I just... I just keep thinking that I'm going to come in from work one day and he'll be standing at the window in his dressing gown playing violin and then he'll turn and smile and say "just tea thanks" and I'll make tea and it'll just go back to normal. That hasn't happened yet, and despite what the therapist says, I still hope that it will.

_**"Cause here we are again in the middle of the night, we're dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light**"_

He was bored one night and on the brink of having a danger night. He hadn't had one for months now but it was easy to know when he was getting to that stage on the boredom scale. He hadn't moved all day and I don't think he'd even showered in two days. I hated seeing him like that because I knew how his brain worked, how he really couldn't do what everyone else does and just zone out for a while so I decided to do something about it. Two bottles of wine later we were singing rather loudly on the sofa sitting next to each other giggling and pouring more into our glasses. That bottle was finished and so we both decided to go get another from the kitchen, where he'd gotten all of that wine I didn't know but I wasn't complaining because he was happy. I opened the fridge and burst out laughing at the head that was in there. Sherlock staggered over and joined in before announcing that we needed music. He pulled his laptop over from the table and started looking for a song while I tried to pull the cork out with my teeth.

A male voice began to sing softly. He held out a hand and gave me one of his rare smiles. I'd always liked seeing him smile. His face totally changed when he did, his eyes lost that guarded anger and he looked innocent as well as damned well adorable. I took his hand and he pulled me in and we started to sway with the music. After a while we were twirling each other around smiling like idiots.

This was one of my memories that I didn't usually share with people. I know people think Sherlock is cold, but he has his moments. This was one of them.

**_"Down the stairs, I was there, I remember it"_**

I've never been able to just walk up the stairs without standing and looking at the hall way. That first night after I ran about like a maniac following him and we pretended to be the police then we came home and stood right over there and laughed so hard our sides hurt. We had met each other once before and we were already acting like we'd known each other ages.

Then there was the day before we left for the court. He'd never admit it but I knew that he was scared. I saw him watching me as I fixed my tie in the living room and then I saw the look in his eyes as we stood right here and I asked if he was ready. He wasn't, but he said yes because he's too much of an arse to say otherwise. We went out and all of those reporters were everywhere shouting and pushing. I walked to the far side of the car and got in and I saw him look at me then too.

I'll always remember that look because it was a rare thing. It was the look that let me know that he trusted me. Sherlock Holmes didn't trust people in the same way that he didn't have friends. He didn't have them, he just had one.

He just had me.

**_"But your keep my old scarf from that very first week, cause it reminds you of innocence and it smells like me"_**

Molly gave me his old scarf after she'd finished cleaning him up. I wasn't sure that her dealing with him was the best idea, but she said she didn't trust anyone else with him and so I let her. The scarf had somehow managed to stay blood free and thats why I got it. His coat was soaked through and so Molly got rid of it. The scarf sits on the arm of my chair beside the table in the living room. You'd think that the smell of him would fade but it hasn't. It still smells of shampoo and his own scent that was clean and sweet but still masculine. I alway think of the old days when I smell that scent. I think of you in a sheet wandering around the flat. I think of the times that you leaned right in over my shoulder to read something and I'd go bright red and you'd smirk a little. I think of how much I'd like to have you leaning over my shoulder now while I type and how much I'd like to get annoyed at you when you start saying things like "are you still typing john?" and " It may prove beneficial to use more that two fingers to type John" because you'd be here to be annoyed at.

**_"Cause here we are again when I loved you so, back before you'd lost the one real thing you'd ever known."_**

It was a Tuesday and it'd been rough. Three years that day that he'd been gone. Three bloody years since he'd left me alone in the flat. I'd thought that, despite the fact that he was totally barking, that he was real. That I could trust him and that he would be a constant in my life. I thought that the whole time. I thought that when I started to notice that he smelt good and that his lips were amazing or that when he had a smile that he only ever showed me. I though it always.

I dragged myself up the stairs towards the promise of a cup of tea and a seat but stopped when Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door of the flat. She'd been crying but she was smiling. She hadn't smiled much since he'd left. Neither of us had. She wiped her eyes with a tissue and laughed a little. I really thought that maybe she'd lost it.

"He's home dear. Sherlock's back" she touched my arm before going back down to her flat and leaving me on the stairs. Yeah, she'd lost it. Must have. He was dead and the flat was empty just like it was every night I came home. I was going to get a dog to help with the emptiness but I never really got around to it. It's funny thinking back to this day now because it all seems so dramatic, but Sherlock Holmes didn't do anything without some measure of melodrama attached. I opened the door and sure enough there was a tall skinny body standing in a blue dressing gown playing violin at the window. Absolute git that he was he just turned slowly and put the instrument down before smiling at me.

I'll admit now that I really shouldn't have went as mad as I did. I hit him a lot. Then a bit more. Then a few more times just for good luck before I grabbed the idiots face and kissed him. He was frozen for a bit and I pulled back. Poor bloke looked like a deer in headlights. I just laughed and kissed him again, he decided to join in that time.

That was all it took really. A smile and a kiss and everything was fine. It was all fine. We were back to where we were before just with the added bonus of admitted feelings. We didn't call each other 'boyfriends' and I'm not gay. I'm only attracted to Sherlock and so that really isn't gay. I thought I'd remembered what it was like having him around when he'd died but I was wrong. He was back and we fought because he put fingers in the kettle then we kissed because he bought a new kettle that wasn't for experiments. My limp was gone and having him in the same bed at night kept every nightmare I'd ever miles away. He was Sherlock and he was mine (and he was surprisingly cuddly).

See I remember what it was like not having him here. I remember it far too well. And he tells me that being away wasn't too great either. He still apologizes for going away for so long and every time he does I tell him that I forgive him. What else can I do? He did it. He did one more miracle for me and I'll never be able to tell him how glad I am that he did.

For now he's sitting in his seat across from me mumbling about how the brothers aunt did in fact have a red car and that it was so obvious that the twin did it. He's not eaten in four days and sleep hasn't touched him yet. He was mad. Totally barking mad. But he was perfect and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

He's looking over my shoulder just now and he smells really good. He's read all of this before but he's just being a git because he's just finished the case and I've not kissed him yet. He's laughing now and he's kissing my face and I can't really see the screen very well.

I kissed him, and I have deduced that this is in fact the real Sherlock Holmes and he's alive and in 221B. He's probably deduced that I'll never be able to tell him how happy I am that he's back. He knows.

He knows all too well.


End file.
